Starry Night
by RachelAutomne
Summary: AU — Life is hard when your source of income is in the form of a writer — a selfish, impatient writer, and one who gives you a stupid nickname, at that. SasoDei/DeiSaso, one-shot, fluff [for Poppy]


Deidara moves his hands across the canvas, that of which wobbles on the easel, humming an old tune to himself, skin colored streaks sliding effortlessly from his fingertips to the piece. He is practicing the human face, for his college rival, Itachi, had placed money he would be unable to paint something as such, since Deidara's area of expertise is sculpting. Such a bet had enraged him, forcing him to spend his nights memorizing the human face rather than studying. After a few weeks, he had driven himself to the store, bought the most expensive paint he could find, and returned home - only to find all of his money has been spent on oils, and therefore a simple brush was unaffordable. It is no matter, for his hands are learned from years of sculpting, and make perfect substitute brushes. Now, he dips his thumbs in the light paint, evening the face. It is too simple, too realistic for his taste. Abstraction and realism together, he thought, were the perfect combination - to incorporate both real and non real elements, reality and fantasy coexisting. During his seclusion, he had also studied the painting Starry Night, for to him, it was the perfect painting, because of its fantasy within reality. Taking the rubicund color, he smears the paint messily over the forehead for hair, and a bit in the empty eyes. Not enough, he thought. Realism was such a bore - bright colors demanded attention and life, which is exactly what art needed. Vivid hazel eyes are touched like raindrops, wide with realization, framed by dark lashes; the hues of peach are saved for slightly open lips. Hands - he needed hands. Light fingers are created, cupping the pale neck. The boy in the piece - teenager, rather - looks to be in a state of horrid realization, as if he has witnessed unspeakable events. Stepping back to admire his work, Deidara studies the painting. It isn't perfect, he decides, but it's enough; nothing is perfect, anyway. After washing his hands, he leaves the finished piece on the easel, prepared to show Itachi his work.

* * *

"What did I tell you?" Deidara says, making no attempt to appear humble in his messy apartment. Art, he knew, needed a proud presenter, not an embarrassed one.

"I'm actually impressed," Itachi admits after a moment.

"Whaddaya mean, 'actually?'" he drawls, glaring at his critic.

"Nothing, of course," Itachi assures. "Poor choice of words."

"I'm sure," Deidara mutters under his breath.

"What I mean to say is," he began. "Not that your sculptures aren't, ah, interesting - but your painting is excellent. You managed to incorporate both abstract and realism," he says, appearing to be in awe of the piece.

"I'm glad to that," Deidara says, finding himself grinning. To hear praise from Itachi is like hearing the Mute Swan sing, and thus he soaks up the sweet words while they still exist.

"Do you plan on selling it?" Itachi asks, rolling his thumb over the painted canvas.

"I hate selling my work," Deidara replies angrily, voice rising. "To think someone could put a price on a piece of art!"

"Don't," Itachi pleads, already exasperated with the artist.

"But you know it's true!" he cries.

"Well... somewhat," Itachi says. "If you want to be a full time artist, you'll have to sell something."

"Never," he maintains, an air of pride in his voice. "Never will I stoop that low."

"Good luck having an art career," Itachi answers, heading straight for the door. Deidara sighs, looking back into the forlorn hazel eyes. How strange, that those eyes could manage to speak his expected future.

* * *

"To sell or not to sell," Deidara mumbles to himself,stirring his now cooled coffee. Thankfully, Itachi had left his window open the night before, and he was able to shove a few dollars into his pockets. He had almost spent it on clay - almost, had not the coffee shop been open. Afternoons were best spent at empty cafés, for then he would have the blissful setting to himself, to ponder and to be inspired. Though he usually despised silence, it was necessary in times of difficult decision. Itachi's words are now running over in his head like a broken record player, repeating their conversation the week prior. He hated being reminded of his low funds, for selling art was - in his opinion - stooping to the lowest form of being an artist. How could one sell a piece that required days and nights of rigorous work, only to have it displayed in a rich man's house - to serve no other purpose other than making a wall look "pretty?" The very thought made his head swim with anger. Of course he would never sell his art - not even if he were starving or living in the streets! Deidara would create for himself, and no one else would ever change his mind.

"Hey, blondie!" a worker is saying, cutting his string of thought. "We're closing now."

"Oh, right," he says, standing up from his chair. "Uh, sorry-"

"Don't waste my time," the teenager snaps, messy red hair falling over his eyes. "Just get out of here."

"Don't tell _me_ what to do," Deidara says without missing a beat, irritation creeping into his voice.

"You shouldn't make me angry," he warns, though it is difficult to take his young face seriously.

"Oh, God forbid the little boy gets angry!" Deidara exclaims.

"Look," the worker says, glaring at Deidara. "I'm not exactly what you call affable or courteous."

"Should I pull out my pocket dictionary, sir?" he replies with heavy sarcasm.

"Clearly, if you don't know the meaning of such simple words," he answers without missing a beat.

"Never have I heard someone say a-"

"I just want to go home and write," he says, almost pleading to be left alone.

"You're an art student?" Deidara asks curiously, forgetting his sudden temper.

"It's none of your business," he answers curtly. "Now, I need to ask you to leave."

"Don't get your panties in a bunch." At this, the worker rolls his eyes, leading Deidara towards the door. While walking out, Deidara sees the man's name tag - Sasori. On the walk home, hands shoved in pockets and receiving strange looks on his unusual hair, the thought hits him, like the inspiration for a breathtaking piece. The worker, he realizes, looked similar to his painting - with his crimson hair and brown eyes, one would think he had painted Sasori from the start. Perhaps they had met somewhere before, Deidara muses; though, he can already tell Sasori is not a sociable person. Walking into his cold apartment, he stops before the painting. Now, there is no doubt - the piece looks exactly like Sasori, with the exception of the man in the painting being disconsolate rather than irritable. He moves closer, until he is face to face with the bright oils, studying the broken boy. After a moment, he looks down, taking a single tube of cerulean.

_"I'm not exactly what you call affable or courteous."_

"Then perhaps," he says aloud, squeezing the wet paint onto his hands. "You're just a heavy hearted artist," he concludes after a moment, moving cyan tears stream slowly down fair cheeks with soft fingertips, like rivers of despair, dripping down to the wooden floor of his apartment.

* * *

"How much would you pay for it?" he asks, rapping his fingers against the counter.

"Hm?" Itachi sounds as if he has just woken up.

"I said, 'how much would you pay for it?'" Deidara repeats impatiently.

"Why are you calling me? It's three in the morning," Itachi groans.

"But how much would you pay for it?"

"Pay for what?"

"The painting!" he cries, slamming his free hand on the counter. "The one I showed you the other day!"

"That which incorporated realism and abstraction?"

"Correct."

A quiet moment passes, the critic confirming a price for the artist's work. "Considering you used oils," he says. "I would say at least fifteen thousand." Deidara is, for a moment, searching for words.

"You really think it's-"

"It's pretty good, I think," Itachi says, sounding more awake. "If you really did use oils. All of those colors are worth a high amount of money, you know."

"Right," he mumbles. "I-I've got to go - I'll call you back later."

"Please don't," he replies curtly, leaving a dial tone for Deidara.

* * *

"You're back," Sasori says to him a few days later. Deidara supposes he is trying to frown, but it comes across as a sort of pout, like that of a child.

"Sure am," Deidara says, slipping a few dollars onto the counter. "I need a small coffee, miss barista."

"One day," he warns, sliding the money into the register. "One day, I will punch you."

"But today is not that day," Deidara answers cheerfully, taking a seat at an empty table. He catches Sasori wince behind the counter, causing himself to laugh.

"Don't you have better affairs to tend to?" Sasori calls out, taking a paper cup.

"Such as?"

"Getting a _job?"_

"Touchy," he says in reply to Sasori's bitter tone. "I'm an artist."

"What kind?" Deidara swears he can hear a faint trace of curiosity in his voice.

"What do you mean?"

"There are many different types of artists, of course," he says, setting a steaming cup on his table. "Some just don't receive as much credit as they should."

"I'm one of those," Deidara replies, staring at the steaming drink in front of him. Like watercolor, he thought.

"Yeah? So am I," he says, sitting in the chair across from Deidara. "What..." he begins, but after a moment he looks away, mumbling under his breath.

"What kind of artist am I?" Deidara guesses.

"I was going to say 'what types are you,' but that doesn't make a bit of sense," he admits, turning his head, but still not looking at the man across from him. Deidara has a suspicion that it isn't because Sasori doesn't want to look at him, rather, he can't - though Deidara isn't sure why.

"Makes sense to me," he replies, taking a sip of his coffee. "Are you a wordsmith or something?"

"Trying to be," he grumbles. "Being a writer is difficult work."

"So you're a writer then?"

"I'm many things," Sasori tells him. "I'm made old fashioned things that won't ever die out - like words, and art. I sketch and paint occasionally, but materials are expensive. Words aren't."

"If you love something, you can always find the time and money," he counters.

"In a perfect world, yes, that's true. Yet I'm spending most of my day here, in a..." he pauses, closing his eyes. "Stupid, dumb... no, too simple-

"I understand what you're saying," Deidara says.

"Absurd," he concludes, opening his eyes. "That's one way to describe this place. I wish they wouldn't play any music," he adds.

"You don't have to worry about sounding that way all of time," Deidara assures, a bit irked by his obsession with finding the right word. "Why would you want that? Music makes this place a little less dull."

"Because I hate music," Sasori answers. "And I want to be a writer all of the time, not only when I have a pen and a piece of paper."

"You must not have friends," Deidara mutters under his breath.

"I don't," he says, as if he were reciting a common fact. "People are monotonous, so I usually don't bother with them."

"So why are you bothering with me?" Deidara wonders aloud, setting down his coffee.

Sasori finally fixes his gaze. "Because you're an artist." A moment passes; Deidara observes dark red hair, fair features, and expressionless hazel eyes - a face worth thousands of dollars, that of which could surely make him successful in the art world. Does Sasori know he is capable of such a thing? His eyes belonged with bright oils on a thick canvas - not in a café.

"Have we ever met before?" he suddenly asks.

"Not that I know of," Sasori replies, finally looking away.

"Huh. I thought you looked familiar," he lies, but the only image in his mind is the heartbroken painting, still sitting on its wobbly easel.

"I was homeschooled till I passed high school," Sasori began, breaking his train of thought. "Now, I'm working to earn a bit of money."

"Right," Deidara says, thinking of some other setting they could have met previously with no luck. "So, I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Fine," he agrees. "What's your name?"

"Deidara."

"That's dull," Sasori answers dryly. "I'll have to call you something else."

"Such as?" As the words leave his lips, a dreadful feeling overwhelms him.

"Hm..." He places a finger on his lips, staring at Deidara in concentration. "Are you a virgin?"

He blinks - of all of the questions Sasori could have asked! "No," he confirms after a moment.

"I thought so," Sasori replies thoughtfully. "You look like you've broken a few hearts, slept with the wrong person or two-"

"Yeah, I get it," he says impatiently.

A short pause. "Lover boy," Sasori finally decides.

"_Hell_ no."

"You don't have a say in your nickname - that's why they're called nicknames, because they're alternate names given to you," he asserts.

"And why 'lover boy?'" The name, he thought, sounded ridiculous.

"You fell in love with the wrong person." He stares right at Deidara again, like a child searching for Deidara to correct him. "Am I right?"

"All right, Shakespeare - I'm leaving." Sasori simply nods, pushing in his chair while Deidara practically sprints out of the the café. It takes every ounce of his self control to not break everything in his apartment, to leave the painting untouched. "What a prick you are," he says bitterly to the bright oils, tempted to change the cyan tears to a cruel bloody red.

* * *

"He's such an asshole!" Deidara rants to Itachi the next day, crossing the sidewalk carefully, as he was carrying his guitar. Itachi had class at the college today, and thus Deidara went with him. He usually wouldn't bother, but today he is aggravated enough to rant to an empty wall. Unfortunately, shouting at an empty wall would cause him a few "noise disturbance" warnings.

"Why am I the one to be bothered with this?" Itachi sighs.

"He doesn't have any idea how to socialize!" Deidara yells in exasperation, tightening his grip on the handle of the case.

"Neither do you," Itachi retorts, stepping over a small puddle.

"He asked me about my virginity," he says, as if such a strange question would prove his point.

"For what reason?"

"My name, apparently," Deidara says bitterly. "Is 'dull,' so he has to call me something else."

"Perhaps he's just lonely," Itachi suggests. "So he wants to call you a nickname to feel close to you."

"He told me himself he hates people," Deidara argues.

"That doesn't mean he isn't alone," Itachi shoots back, darting up the steps.

"So you're saying I should see him again?" Deidara asks, disbelieving of his rival as he matches his pace.

"I'm not saying anything," Itachi replies. "He only looks exactly like your most valuable work, and could therefore make you successful beyond your wildest dreams." And with this, he steps through the door, leaving Deidara to himself.

* * *

"Lover boy," Sasori calls out to him the next day. Deidara is thankful he has come after noon, when there is no one around to hear such a blasted appellation.

"I told you not to give me that name," he says irritably, placing his money on the counter.

"And I told you that one does not choose his own epithet," Sasori shot back, setting the bills into the register.

"How would you like it if I called you 'scorpion?'" he retorts, taking an empty seat.

"I wouldn't mind," Sasori answers, smirking as he takes a paper cup. "Did you search the meaning of my name?"

"I did."

"Good for you," is all he says. It is quiet for a few minutes in the cafe, while Deidara stares at him making coffee. There is a mysterious air about him, for he was always blunt, yet there is little he knew about Sasori. Though they had only met about a week before, it irks him how little he knows. There is a desire to know about him - to know the face worth something, who now called him "lover boy." Itachi's words repeat in his mind, suggesting loneliness. If one chose to be alone, then was he truly lonely? Or was he merely immature, and unlearned about how to handle social situations? Probably the latter, in Sasori's case. His thought is suddenly lost from a sharp flick to the forehead, now noticing his coffee on the table.

"That wasn't necessary," he says, starting to feel annoyed.

"What were you thinking?" Sasori asks, sitting in the chair across from Deidara. His eyes are wide - similar to the oil painting, except filled with curiosity.

"Why do you want to know?" Deidara retorts.

"You were staring," he remarks.

"At what?"

"Me, of course," he says, as if such a thing were obvious.

"You, of _course_," Deidara repeats bitterly.

"So we both agree you were, in fact, staring," Sasori concludes. "Which brings us back to the original question."

"You really should learn how to socialize better," he advises, taking his coffee.

"Why would I need to know something like that?"

"I can't even talk with you for five minutes without getting pissed off," he admits, looking away.

"I was pissed off before you walked in the door," Sasori reveals, pouting as if Deidara is the one he is exasperated with.

"At what, exactly?" Deidara asks, his curiosity daring himself to look back.

"Everything," he began, slumping back into his chair. "My grandmother just called to ask how medical school is - she has no clue I've dropped out - then I have to come here six days a week, and I have books to read."

"You're a medical student?"

"Was," Sasori corrects, averting his stare to the table. "I wanted to be a doctor for the longest time."

"What happened?"

He shrugs, looking up to his left. "I realized my love for books."

"What kinds of books?"

"Everything," he says, focusing on the ceiling as if words are engraved there. "Fiction, non fiction, mythology, medical textbooks..."

"Maybe there's a few that I've read," Deidara says hopefully, trying to remember the last time he read a book cover to cover.

"It's likely," he replies. "I could show you one day."

"How about tomorrow?"

"Not today?"

"I've got plans today," he lies. He notices that after spending time with Sasori, aggravation seemed to follow him for the rest of the day.

"All right, tomorrow then," Sasori agrees, pulling himself forward to look at Deidara. "Come around 14, since I get off work around 13." He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pen and a piece of paper, and scribbles a message and handing it to Deidara. "There's my phone number if you need it."

"All right," he says, shoving the slip of paper into his pocket. "See you tomorrow, then."

"Bye, lover boy."

* * *

"Dammit, Sasori!" Deidara yells, throwing his fist against the wall in frustration. He'd arrived at the apartment at 14:30, calling and asking for directions at 14, claiming he was running late. Now, it is 14:45, and not a stir has been made, save for the impatient tapping of his fingertips against the stippled wall.

"Lover boy!" a voice calls from his right. He sees Sasori, running towards him in the outdoor hallway, stopping in front of the door. "I was out for a bit," he pants.

"Whatever," is all Deidara says, attempting to keep his anger contained. Not even an apology was made! Then again, what else would he expect from someone like Sasori? There is a reason he chose to be unpunctual, being that he would never be stranded - unsurely waiting for someone he hardly knew. He turns away while Sasori pulls out his keys.

"This is it," he says, unlocking the door and stepping into his messy apartment. From what Deidara can see, there are several piles books shoved to the left side of the room, with several more books empty mugs scattered around the wooden floor.

"It's-"

"I don't have much of a personality," he interrupts, sitting on an empty patch of the floor. "I'm just made of permanent things - like my books."

"I can see," Deidara notes dryly, taking in the bare walls and lack of furniture. "What are all of these cups for?"

"Tea," he says, taking one of the many books that seemed engulf him. "Can't have a book without tea, you know."

"Are you reading right now?" Deidara asks incredulously. Is it possible for him to become even more insensitive than he is already?

"I am," Sasori answers impatiently. After a moment, he tosses the book to the right side of the room. "Too boring," he decides.

"What was it about?" he quarries, attempting to feel interested. So far, luck has left him astray.

"Something about a boy who was dating a witch," Sasori replies. "There was one line I liked... how did it go?"

Deidara walks over to the poor book, thrown into a mug of old tea. He flips to a page close to the beginning, reading aloud. "'Be with Senna for a million years and you won't know her. Be with April ten minutes and it's like you grew up together.'"

"Yes, that one. Simple, yet fitting. It shows the contrast in the two characters..." he trails off, picking up another book at his side. "Oscar Wilde - fantastic author," he says, setting the book at his side, picking up another. "_Count of Monte Cristo_ - hated the ending of this one," he says bitterly before chucking it across the room.

"Is this all you do?" Deidara asks impatiently. He is itching to move, to sculpt - to do anything but read. The activity, he had discovered long ago, was tedious. It required focused attention, yet there was no movement, and more importantly - no feeling.

"If I'm not writing, yes," Sasori answers after a moment. "I buy used books wherever I go - stores, garage sales, supermarkets - I get it all. Then, I sit down and read them all, keeping the few exceptional ones and selling the rest."

"Well, I'll go then-"

"Help me, lover boy," he orders, shoving a pile of books towards Deidara's feet. He is about to say a few choice words, until he looks again at Sasori; even when reading, he is expressionless... if only he weren't worth so much! He sighs, sitting on the hardwood floor and picking up the book. _Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes._ With a look of disgust, he flips to a page at random, looking up through his bangs, checking to see if Sasori would change his expression. He hasn't moved. Averting his focus back to the ink on the page, Deidara makes a private bet with himself, that one day, he would see the true face of the writer, the one filled with the heartbreak incorporated in his painting. The minutes creep by ever so slowly, while neither the artist nor the writer stirs their features.

* * *

"You are the most ignorant person!" Deidara rages in his empty apartment, taking a glass from the counter. "First lover boy - then having me over only to read." He throws the poor glass against the wall, watching the poor thing shatter into a million shards. Even this is not enough to quiet his anger. Looking at the painting, he takes the crimson paint, splattering the canvas with red. "That's how not knowing how to socialize, that's for treating me like a piece of shit - and_ that-"_ he yells, smearing maroon across the face - "is for being better than me." He stops, the words cutting him like a sharp scalpel. The soft carmine stained onto his hands is now blood, a cruel proof of his actions. Taking a sponge set beside his brushes, he wipes away the wounds, the painting restored to it's original form. Somehow, the image is filled with more despair than before, as if it knew about the blood smeared across it's face.

* * *

"Why do you like reading?"

No answer.

"Sasori."

"I'm reading."

"You're an asshole."

"Your point?"

Deidara sighs, giving up the task of trying to comprehend _Wuthering Heights,_ and instead stares at Sasori, losing count of the seconds before he looks up.

"What are you doing?" he asks. Deidara tilts his head, unanswering. He thought for a moment, there was a trail of nervousness spreading through his voice.

"Stop that," he orders. Deidara finds himself grinning, amused at his annoyance.

"I'm trying to understand," Deidara explains, letting himself enjoy Sasori's aggravation. "Why you enjoy reading."

"Because you become someone different," he says without missing a beat. "You're away from the world for a while. You meet new people without talking, and new creatures without moving a muscle."

"So you hate reality?" Deidara concludes.

Sasori smiles, but instead of being pleasant, the feature gives him an uneasy feeling. "Being dead would be better than facing the world," he says. Deidara finds himself cringing, because in that moment, Sasori looked more dead than alive.

* * *

"Come with me," Sasori orders.

"Where?" Deidara asks, not looking up from the book he is reading. Within another week, he had slowly gotten used to Sasori's unsocial and blunt demeanor, and spending time with him is becoming almost daily. Reading, he also discovered, wasn't so terrible when he had an interesting book - especially one about mythology. In Sasori's apartment, reading is second nature, and he would soon find himself sitting on the floor willingly, absorbed in the world of printed letters for hours on end.

"Dinner," Sasori answers, pulling on a jacket.

Deidara stops, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. "Since when did you like going out?"

"Since now."

"Is this some kind of date?" he teases.

"Not a date," Sasori assures, taking his keys. "I just need to remind myself how much I despise people."

"And why is that?"

"It doesn't concern you," he replies curtly.

"Then I'm not going," Deidara answers, turning back to his work. If Sasori wouldn't even give him a reason, why should he give one in return?

He sighs. "Lov-"

"Why should I?" he snaps, voicing his thoughts. "To feel out of place and awkward, and then being treated like shit? No thanks," he says, returning to his reading. Although he had gotten a bit used to Sasori, it didn't mean he was any less aggravating.

"Deidara-"

"Aren't you the one who prefers to be alone all of the time?" he continues, clenching the paper in his hands.

"I don't prefer to be alone - I just _am!"_ Sasori yells. "You want to know why I want to go out - no, why I_ need_ to go out? To I see other people - people who lie, cheat, steal, and I just want to be alone again. I want the comfort of my books, of people who can't disappoint because they aren't real to begin with." He stops, a look of horrid realization on his features, grasping the meaning of the words that have escaped. Before another word spoken, he darts into the nearest room, locking the door.

"Sasori!" he calls, getting up and pounding on the door. "Sasori!" No answer. He sighs, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. There is a desire to walk away, to never deal with wandering brown eyes or constant insensitive behavior again. Of course, right now he is the one feeling rather insensitive. _It isn't my fault,_ he thought. Sasori should have made his actions clear from the start. The entire situation gives him a piercing headache, causing him to stand up. The private bet suddenly appears in his mind, reminding himself of the deal. But how is he supposed to keep trying, when a ghostly barrier kept them strained? To do so would be trying to swim while breathing underwater, then become upset upon choking. He walks towards the front door, taking hold the dulled knob. As always, the painting returns to mind, reminding him of the fortune Sasori could attract._ I hate him,_ Deidara tells himself. Strange, how the words seemed like lies, untrue words told to make himself feel better. Taking a deep breath, he pulls the phone from his pocket, seating himself on the hardwood floor. After some minutes, there is a knocking at the front door. He answers, taking the box and slipping the man a few dollars.

"I ordered pizza," he says, slipping a piece under Sasori's door. "I figured you at least wanted something to eat." He takes the book he had been interested in earlier, running his eyes over the black and white words for the sake of being occupied. _"Perhaps he's just lonely."_ The words ring through his head, causing a pang of guilt and anger with every beat. Lies are so much better than truth, he concludes, remembering Zeus and his many affairs with other women. He throws the book against the door, then leaning his head back and closing his eyes, repeating to himself that lies are better than truth. Somehow, the claim itself almost confesses it is a lie in itself.

* * *

"Lover boy," a whisper calls to him in the darkness.

"What are you doing?" Deidara groans, feeling himself being dragged by his hands by a cold grip across the floor. Normally, he would at least ask what was happening, but at the moment he is too tired to care.

"Taking you to bed," the whisper replies.

"Why?" he manages to ask. At first, he thought the voice was Sasori, but he doubts Sasori would care about where he slept.

"It's one thing to sleep on the floor, but doing it outside my room makes me feel guilty," the voice admits. His hands are suddenly released, the chilled fingers letting them fall to the floor. "I can't pick you up."

"Just leave me here," he mumbles, turning onto his side.

"Are you sure?"

"Mmhm."

"Fine," the voice says in stubborn agreement. The sound of footsteps grows softer, then a minute later grows louder and closer. Something thin and soft falls on his body - the familiar feeling of a blanket - then footsteps start again, though not for long. He senses someone lay down next to him, fidgeting on the hardwood floor. Deidara almost opens his eyes to check who it is - almost, but he is much too tired. He could always check see who the strange person is in the morning.

* * *

"Nice place," Sasori comments, walking behind Deidara into his crowded apartment - perhaps less crowded, as the painting had been hidden away.

"It's enough," he replies, sitting on the couch. In response to his raging fit a few days prior, Deidara had invited him over. It is a way to learn how to deal with Sasori better, he'd lied to himself, but in the end, the lie will be for the better, unlike Zeus' mischievous scandals from his wife

"I think it's nice," Sasori repeats, sitting beside him. To break the uncomfortable silence, Deidara takes his guitar, which had been placed in front of the couch, as he had planned on the day being uneventful. Each pluck and strum he makes is clear, the sounds a form of indescribable beauty. The music, he felt, was a language in itself, that needn't studying, only patience and a careful ear. He sometimes spent hours locked away in his room, every light shut off, plucking each string, memorizing its sound, and singing along to the beautiful melodies.

"Teach me, lover boy," Sasori whispers, eyes wide with awe.

"Will you ever stop calling me that?" he says, pretending not to notice his startling reaction to the instrumental music.

"Shh!" Sasori places his hand over Deidara's mouth. "Play," he whispers. For a moment, the desperate child is seen - the boy in the painting, who had seen such unspeakable events. Deidara simply nods, dumbfounded by Sasori's behavior, resuming the song. Sasori closes his eyes, softly humming the notes. How would he know such a song, he thought, while he claimed to dedicate most of his hours to reading and writing? He stares at Sasori, trusting his fingers to move unsupervised. There is the slightest trace of emotion in his features, of... happiness? No, not happiness nor melancholy, but reminiscence, as if there is a blissful memory he clings to, yet the traces of happiness had vanished. Deidara stops playing, the last note fading, causing Sasori to open his eyes.

"That's the end of the song," he says quietly, as if the silence around them will shatter.

"Please, play it again." Deidara isn't sure why he begins the song again - perhaps it is because Sasori had just used manners, or because the boy in the painting is sitting right in front of him. In either case, it is enough for him to run his hands over the familiar instrument, and to play for the heartbroken boy.

* * *

Deidara wakes to a humming sound, coming from the main room of the apartment. He groans, forcing himself to get up and check the room. He doubts someone would rob his mess of an apartment, with paints and brushes dispersed along the floor, and sheet music crammed into couch cushions. Stumbling into the living room, he sees Sasori, still in his clothes from the past day, holding the guitar.

"What are you doing?" he mumbles, not yet fully awake.

"Learning," Sasori replies in a clear voice, strumming with a few fingers on the frets.

Deidara sighs. He could kick him out this very instant, and with all the power in the world, never have to see his face again, with all his rudeness. Memories of blood and rage enter his mind, of sleeping side by side, and notes of beauty. "That's not how you do it," he finally says. "You curl your fingers like this, see - yes, like that. Now strum."

"It's still buzzing," Sasori complains after a moment, looking frustrated.

"Don't strum so harshly, just - yes, softly," he directs. Sasori moves his fingers, then strums again. There is only a crisp, clean chord ringing throughout the room. He smiles - a real, genuine smile, as if he were revealing himself through a false facade.

"I did it," he voices in disbelief.

"First finger first fret second string," Deidara says, sounding completely awake, fixed on seeing him break the expressionless mask a second time. "The other second string - second finger second fret third string, and third finger second fret third string. Curl your fingers, now strum."

"Which chord is that?" Sasori asks, sounding genuinely interested.

"A minor," he says.

"Is it in the song?"

"Yeah, it's in Green Sleeves."

"My mother played guitar," he says after a few moments. "She used to play the same song," he says, looking down at his strumming hand. "Don't repeat that to anyone."

"I won't," Deidara promises.

"By 'anyone,' I mean me."

"I won't," he repeats.

"Good." After a moment of hesitation, Sasori holds out the guitar. "You should play, I'm no good at this."

"It's just practice," he assures, taking the instrument he knew better than anyone else.

"Words don't require practice, lover boy."

"Then think of it as words from the instrument," Deidara advises, beginning the song.

"Bittersweet," he describes after a moment. "Though, mostly sweet," he says, resting his head on Deidara's shoulder, who plays the sweet melodies over and over till he is certain Sasori has fallen asleep.

* * *

"How have you been lately?" Itachi asks one day, sitting on the floor of Deidara's apartment, an open textbook laying before him.

He looks down, guitar in hand, moving his fingers along aimlessly. "You know me. I've just been an artist. How's college?"

"It's interesting, I'll give it that much," he replies, not looking up from the page. "Have you sold the painting?"

"Of course not," Deidara retorts. "I told you - I'll never sell my art, especially not my best work."

"You think it's your best work?" Itachi quarries, an air of curiosity in his voice.

"Well, right now, at least," he says, feeling uneasy about the sudden change in the atmosphere.

"I notice you haven't been complaining about your friend lately," Itachi notes.

"You mean Sasori?"

"The one who you complained about being antisocial."

"Yeah, that's Sasori," he confirms, shifting his fingers on the frets to a new position. "You were right about him being lonely."

"I figured."

"I found out he hates music, though," Deidara reveals sadly.

"Why is that?"

"Oh, you know how Sasori is," he replies bitterly. "Always keeping himself a hidden mystery."

"That's too bad," Itachi says.

"I just wish I knew more," he admits, making a final strum. "I've known him for about a month, and see him almost every day. He doesn't tell me much."

"Then what do you do?" Itachi asks.

"I can't even tell you," Deidara sighs, setting the guitar aside. "He's either reading or writing, but he doesn't use a computer to type - he writes everything by hand."

"Sounds tedious."

"It's infuriating!" he cries, standing up.

"Because he doesn't use a computer?"

"Because he doesn't trust me!"

"It's not as easy for him," Itachi mumbles.

"Because he's an asshole," he concludes, pacing the room.

"Think this through," he reasons, flipping through a few pages in his book. "Is there anything he's ever said that might've suggested a reason for his seclusion?"

"He hates people," Deidara begins. "He thinks computers are superficial, he cringes at any music other than guitar, and only a few songs, at that - and-"

"Most people love music," he interrupts. "Is there any reason Sasori hates it?"

Deidara stops, staring at the wall. "All I know is that his mother used to play guitar."

"And what happened to his mother?"

"How the hell should I know?!" he snaps, resuming his pace. "I've never told him about my parents."

"That's hardly fair, considering you don't know yours," Itachi says, frowning at his friend.

Deidara smirks. "True," he admits. "If there's one thing I learned from dropping high school and choosing an art career, it's that life isn't fair - it's more like falling."

"And how is that?"

"Because falling is freedom," he says. "Falling is joy, exhilaration, excitement - it just hurts like hell when you land." He turns to the painting, sitting on its trusted easel. "Emotions are stupid," he tells the broken boy. "But feeling is art."

"I suppose I'll have to take your word for it," Itachi says, failing to notice Deidara tracing the oils, from the smallest crevices to the faint raises of paint.

* * *

"What are you doing?!" Deidara exclaims, stepping inside Sasori's apartment. The setting is even messier than usual - open books create a minefield across the floor, with spilled tea and tipped mugs. The books are thicker than those even Sasori read; they are dictionaries.

"I can't find the right word," he says, bruised eyes scanning the pages of an open dictionary in his hands.

"That's what internet is useful for," Deidara tells him, watching in frustration.

"I don't need the internet," he retorts stubbornly, flipping the delicate pages. "Penchant is used to describe habits," he mumbles, running his finger over the page. "Predilection certainly doesn't cover it."

"Cover what?"

"For a piece I'm writing," Sasori answers, letting the book fall to the floor. "There isn't a word to say what I want to say."

"So use a combination of words," he advises.

"Not that simple," is all Sasori says before delving into another dictionary. Deidara sighs; he carefully navigates through the messy room to the kitchen, looking through the fridge.

"There's nothing in here," Deidara says, staring into the empty white.

"I don't eat much."

"I mean, there's _nothing_ in here," he repeats, searching through the shelves and drawers. Not a single morsel of food is in Sasori's apartment. "What's the meaning of this?"

"I don't get hungry very often."

"Calling bullshit on that one," Deidara shoots back, folding his arms across his chest.

"I think it would trouble you if I told you," Sasori replies calmly, as if he is making small talk about the weather.

"Try me," he bets, leaning against the counter.

Sasori scans the page for many minutes before he speaks. "I used to be a bit suicidal," he finally responds. "'A bit' putting it lightly. I also don't eat when I feel... low."

Deidara blinks, the words escaping his lips before he realizes their meaning. "Why?"

"For several reasons," he answers. "But I can't tell you, lover boy."

Now the wording is not accidental. "Why?"

"Because you will leave," he says simply. "Everyone leaves me, somehow."

"And why would I do that?" Deidara asks, staring at his doleful fortune.

"That I can't tell you," Sasori replies, frowning at the words in the book.

"And why can't you tell me?"

"Because I honestly don't know the reason," he admits. "I've concluded I must be cursed, to feel such guilt and self hatred, and to have everyone around me fade."

"Fade?" Deidara raises an eyebrow.

"That's what happens," Sasori tells him, shutting the book. "You feel them grow more and more distant as time passes by - like they're fading."

"Everyone leaves at some point," he argues. "Through death or simple circumstances."

"And that's why I don't grow close to people," he concludes, shelving the thick dictionary and taking another. "Because that's all they do - they disappear."

"I haven't disappeared," Deidara reasons.

"Not yet," Sasori replies, scanning the pages with a single finger. "But you will."

"Why would I do that?" he asks.

"I told you, lover boy," Sasori answers impatiently. "Everyone else has done so."

"Then I'll have to make a promise, won't I?" he suggests.

Sasori looks up, the expressionless mask in place. "Been there, done that," he says.

* * *

Deidara pulls his black hood closer to his cheeks, trying to avoid the blond strands from escaping and creating a bright light in the early morning. The stars could not be seen due to the amount of street lamps shining on the cool sidewalk, something he despises.

"Borrowing is so difficult nowadays," he mumbles to himself. His common sense tells him this is understandable, since it is a college campus, but nevertheless it annoys him. Itachi has a dorm here, from which Deidara regularly took money from in the early hours of the morning. He likes to think of it as borrowing, even though he can never pay the money back. There is no point in paying back anyway - if he needed money, why should he dig himself into a hole of debt? It's one thing to owe money to a bank, but to Itachi? The very thought makes him cringe.

Finally, he reaches Itachi's dorm building, staring up at the balcony one story away. This is the most difficult part, but it did not mean the task itself is necessarily difficult. The building had bricks sloppily built on the exterior with slight ledges, creating a way to climb up. Placing his hands on two separate ledges, he pulls himself up, continuing to climb until he reaches Itachi's window. Unlocking the sill as slowly as he could stand - the damn thing squeaked every time he opened it - he pulls himself in through the window. Inside the cramped room, he checks the desk, where Itachi's wallet is usually placed. Now, there is no wallet, but instead a bright orange sticky note. Deidara takes the note, squinting at the words in the dark.

_I know you've been taking my money,_ it read.

Deidara grits his teeth, resisting the strong urge to scream. How could he take the money now? His pride is insulted, stepped on, and somewhat crushed. Common sense tells him Itachi would have found out eventually, but now, common sense is blinded by embarrassment and rage. Crumpling the note in his fist, he throws it out the window, watching it shoot across the air. He wishes he could be that bright-colored paper, falling to ground without a mere thud. He sits on the window sill, looking down at the ground below. How he wishes he could fall without any consequences! After contemplating whether he should quickly let go and feel the exhilaration, Deidara finally climbs down, wishing the whole way down he had chosen to fall instead. He steps on the ground, spotting the bright-colored note in the dark grass. The urge to scream is suddenly stronger than before.

_No wonder Sasori loves words,_ he thought, walking towards the bright orange spec. _They're cruel._ Deidara takes the note and shoves it in his pants pocket, running the rest of the way home, the lack of a starry night annoying him every passing second.

_Note to self: burn these clothes later,_ he tells himself bitterly.

* * *

"What would I have to do?" Deidara asks, an open book placed on the floor before him.

"Spin around three times, touch your toes, and a backflip," Sasori replies with a smirk, unwavering from scribbling on the sheet of paper.

"I'm being serious," he says.

"So am I."

"I know you've planned a loophole somewhere in that sentence," he says, closing his book. "Can't you trust me?"

"I don't trust anyone," Sasori says. "So the answer to your question is-"

"Yes?"

"No."

"But I wanna know!" he yells, pounding his fists on the floor.

"You can't know everything," Sasori tells him.

"I deserve to know why you refuse to eat," Deidara reasons.

"I deserve my privacy," he shoots back.

"But-!"

"But nothing, lover boy," he answers, impatience touching his features. "If I don't feel hungry, that's my own business."

"Like hell it is."

"Believe what you like," Sasori replies. "It's a shame you care about me."

"I don't care about you," Deidara snaps.

"That's why you're making such a big deal about it," he says, voice dripping in sarcasm.

"You're impossible!" Deidara yells. "You don't have a single trait that's good about you - not one! You're ignorant, impatient, and selfish, and I hate you."

"Then leave," Sasori answers without missing a beat, keeping his voice at a normal volume. "Leave like everyone else."

"I wish I could," Deidara says. "But I can't."

"For what reason?"

"It's none of your concern," he replies in a mocking tone, returning to his reading.

"Lover boy."

No answer.

"Lover boy."

The sound of pages turning.

"Deidara."

Deidara looks up. "What-" he starts, but stops at the look on Sasori's face. He looks to be angry, with his glare looking to kill. The only contrast to this is the tears gliding gently down his flushed cheeks. There is a pause, of Deidara staring in disbelief, and Sasori holding his gaze. Of all the times he could look at Deidara!

"Get out," he says evenly. "And don't come back."

"But-"

"Get out," he repeats. His tone hasn't changed, but Deidara can tell he is serious.

"Not until you tell me," Deidara asserts, staring straight into tear-filled eyes.

"Why can't you leave me alone?" he mumbles, clutching his legs to chest, and resting his head on his knees.

"If you tell me, I'll tell you."

"Can't do that," Sasori tells him, keeping his position.

"Because I won't tell you, right?"

"Because you will vanish, like the dying flowers. You're there for only a moment, and then you're gone. I can't allow that to happen again."

"Again?"

"My parents were killed in war," he says. "They promised me they'd be back in a few days. That's why I don't do promises, lover boy."

"If it makes you feel any better," Deidara says after a moment. "I don't even know my parents, I'm a highschool dropout, and I don't have any friends."

"I wonder," Sasori mumbles aloud, raising his head. "How someone like you can be happy, but someone like me can't find it."

"I want to show you something," Deidara suddenly says. "In my apartment."

"What would that be?"

"It's a surprise," he says, standing up. "Come on."

"If you show me," Sasori begins. "Then you have to tell me why you haven't left."

"That's what I'm going to show you," he says.

* * *

"Can't you just show me?" Sasori asks again - Deidara has lost count of how many times he has asked.

"Hold on, I'm getting it," he calls from his room, taking the painting that had been stowed underneath his bed. Walking out, he sets it on the easel, then turns to Sasori, who is blindfolded. "Are you ready?"

"I've_ been_ ready, lover boy," he answers impatiently.

"All right, then. You can take off the blindfold."

Sasori pulls the T-shirt tied to cover his eyes, and lets it fall to the floor. He stares at the painting for a few moments, frowning at the work. "I don't understand," he finally says.

Deidara blinks. "What don't you get?"

"Why this-" he traces the abstract tears- "is your reason for staying."

"Before I met you, I painted this - I was inspired by Starry Night, so I made it similar," Deidara explains. "I was told it was a really valuable painting, so when I met you-"

"You thought I was worth the painting?" Sasori guesses.

"More!" he exclaims. "Because if the painting is worth that much, than you're worth at least double that amount."

No response.

"Sasori?"

No answer.

"Sasori?"

"Yes," he says, a smile slipping onto his features. "I understand now."

"I'm glad you do," Deidara says, feeling relief to finally expose the secret.

"You made this for me," he says, taking the painting into his hands.

Deidara blinks a few times, confused at the words. "I'm sorry?"

"You made this before you met me," Sasori explains. "So that one day, you would show me." He turns to Deidara, the smile still holding its place. "Right?"

"Right," he agrees, unsure of what he is saying.

"Knew it." Sasori laughs, holding the painting to his chest. "Meet me at the café tomorrow," he says, touching Deidara's cheek.

"Okay."

"See you then, lover boy," he says, walking out the door. Deidara sighs, touching his burning cheek, with eyes fixed on the front door.

* * *

"You wanted to see me?" Deidara says the next day, more as a conformation for himself than for his friend.

"Yes," Sasori answers, sliding a cup of coffee across the counter.

"About what?" he asks after a moment of silence.

"To answer a question for me," he says, sitting across from Deidara, who stares at his thin fingers.

"What is it?"

"Why did it have to be me?" The words ring from the inexpensive mugs to tiled floor. For once, Sasori isn't shifting his gaze - his eyes are fixed on Deidara.

Sipping the drink, he looks down, thinking. Deidara knew very well what the question is asking - the real question on his mind is how to answer. The little vocabulary in his mind is mixed and matched in the wrong order, and his fingers suddenly seem terribly fat compared to Sasori's. He almost wishes to be in school again, when he could simply shrug his shoulders at a difficult question, and that was it. Now, one wrong word could ruin everything. The entire situation is uncomfortable, but he knew from experience how to escape.

"Because I like you," he finally answers, offering a smile. Hopefully the beauty of unexpected actions would grant him another favor. Besides, this is an easy way of revealing recent thoughts. After the day the painting was taken from him, familiar thoughts from high school entered his mind, making the nickname "lover boy" more real of a nickname than before.

"But why me?" Sasori repeats impatiently. "Why was it me on the painting? Why not someone else?"

Deidara runs his hand through his hair, the nervousness of facing the question he could not answer cutting his thoughts. "I don't know," he admits. "It just happened. I'm not really a painter, but I made a stupid bet, and I studied some anatomy and painting techniques - it just happened, I sw-"

"So it was all coincidental?" he asks.

"Yeah," he says, twisting and bending his fingers in nervous fidgeting. "Yeah, it was." To Deidara, he sounds... happy? Relieved? He gives up searching for the correct word - he isn't the writer, after all.

"Then I have to show you something."

"What?"

"At my place - I've been meaning to show you something."

* * *

"You should know this is extremely uncomfortable," Deidara tells him, trudging up the steps to Sasori's apartment. The walk had been even more unsettling than usual this time, what with Sasori's nervous fidgeting of his hands, then to biting his lips till they bled, and finally to picking his clothes, only to straighten them out again.

"Why would you feel that way?" he asks, smoothing his shirt for the millionth time.

"No reason," Deidara answers dryly, now walking towards the door at the end of the hall.

"There is a reason, and you should tell me," he says, pulling out his keys and shoving them in the door bolt, turning the keys sharply to the right, and rushing inside. He did all of this quickly, but not quickly enough for Deidara to let his shaking hands go unnoticed.

"I just noticed you're-"

"Nervous?" Sasori is behind the counter in the kitchen, grabbing a paper cup the counter and filling it with water from the sink.

"Just a bit," he says. "Wait, is that-"

"What?"

"You've bought food," he notices, a grin pulling across his face.

"Huh?" The water stops running, while Sasori seems to down the water in one gulp. "Oh yeah, I did," he says absent mindedly.

"It's really good," Deidara says, once again aware of the tense atmosphere. He walks to an empty space on the floor, taking the book closest to him, figuring it best to leave Sasori alone for a few minutes. Even now that he had grown to appreciate reading, it is nearly impossible at this particular moment. Counting the seconds, he turns the page every minute, scanning the page without absorbing any information. As he is about to turn the fifth page, he senses Sasori walking towards him, and - eager to drop the book - he looks up expectantly. Sasori sits beside him, staring at the wall ahead.

"Have you ever truly hated me?" he asks after a few moments of silence. Deidara opens his mouth to respond, but Sasori cuts him off. "Honestly."

Deidara is quiet for a moment. "Yeah," he finally admits.

Sasori nods at the wall. "There were times I hated you, too." He looks to his fidgeting fingers, as if they would whisper an answer. "I can't do this next part."

"Then don't do it," Deidara advises.

"No, I have to," he insists. "Since you told me about your painting, I have to tell you something about myself."

"When did I say that?"

"You never did. I really don't want to do this, but..." He takes a deep breath. "This is going to sound... absurd, but you're my only friend."

"I already figured that out."

"No, that's not the absurd part - God, I can't think!" he shouts, frustrated at his inability to speak.

"Just say it really fast," Deidara says.

"Ugh!" he leans back, laying on books and empty mugs. "This is too difficult."

"Say it like that," Deidara tells him.

"No." He pulls himself up, running a hand through his hair. "Would you close your eyes while I say it?"

"Yeah." Deidara closes his eyes, peaking ever so slightly through his lashes. He can see Sasori staring at him now, scrutinizing his every move.

"Do you like me?"

What a strange question, Deidara thought. Surely, he wouldn't have stayed with Sasori so long if he hadn't begun appreciate something about him. "Yes," he answers.

"Answer in a complete sentence."

Deidara sighs. Before, he might've felt the urge to slap him across the face, but now, he feels he should have expected such. "Yes, I like you," he says.

He feels two cold hands take hold of his wrists. "Do you still like me?" Sasori asks again, leaning closer to check his eyes are closed.

"Yes, I like you," he answers, shutting his eyes completely.

The cold hands slide into his own. "Do you still like me?"

"Yes, I still like you," Deidara says. He peeks under his eyelashes again, curious to see beyond the black his closed eyes gave him. Sasori is still watching. He shuts his eyes, resisting the urge to smile.

"Do you like me?" Sasori asks a third time. He fits his fingers between the spaces of his hand.

"Yes, I still like you," he repeats patiently.

"Do you-"

"'Still like me?'" he guesses. "The answer is yes, Sasori."

"Don't interrupt me," he orders.

"Yes, master," Deidara answers brightly, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"I'll have to reword myself, then." The cold fingers slip out of his hands, only to be felt on his face. "I like the painting you made for me."

He opens his eyes, confused at the words. "What does that have to do with anyth-"

His vision turns black from the hand covering his eyes, but there is another sensation. Lips. Soft lips touching his own. His eyes widen, trying to see beyond the darkness the cold hands give him. Sensation. Lips that feel different from being bitten. Breath that tastes of familiar coffee. One cold hand that moves down his arm. Everything tells him this is the writer, who gave him a stupid nickname and forced him to read. If that was the case... he sighs, letting himself smile against the soft pink, letting himself relax. Too soon, the lips pull away, and the hand uncovers his eyes.

"What gives? I was starting to enjoy myself," he teases.

"You like me."

Deidara rolls his eyes. "I know you're a writer, but do you really need to state the obvious?"

_-fin-_


End file.
